Warnings: One or two swear words/a few very bloody scenes/slight sexuality. Overall rating M.
Story theme: Development/Life cycle
Written for Catherine-Grace on dA.
Author's note: It's recommended you have a bit of time on your hands before you begin reading this.. Enjoy, still!

Heaven Happened, Yesterday
written from 2009年1月31日, to 2009年5月18日

Zexion cast a thoughtful glance outside the window- it was a cloudy day today, but the sun was smiling that the world from where she could be seen. If it stayed this way, it would be good. If it got hot, though.. He frowned, but turned away from the large glass panes, reverting his attention to his desk.

It was a humble desk, hardly enough for someone as devoted a multi-tasker as himself. Upon the creaky, old chair there was a pile of worn clothes that served as cushions- it was a ridiculous sight, but it was comfortable. The desk was worse- upon it were piles of books and notebooks, stationary and the like. A small clearing had been made for his computer, but the carnage that surrounded it seems to root it down permanently- Zexion doubted the possibility of moving the computer without dislodging some delicate stature or other.

Stretching, he took a sip of his coffee and turned the computer on, sitting back. He'd been thinking all night about what to write, and now was his chance to add it to his story. He'd write until it was twelve, then he'd make a sandwich, he told himself. Then, he'd eat it while going online and scouring for information for his novel. Its setting was in World War I, and being the way he was, Zexion had convinced himself that he couldn't afford to get one tiny detail wrong. The critics, think of the critics, he told himself in a common moment of scrutiny.

He had maintained this schedule since August last year, and it had worked pretty damn well for him. That was when he had started this novel- his last one having finished in July and being a widespread success. Or so he had been told by his friends. Roxas would tell him about how annoying it was to see Zexion's penname plastered all over books upon books in the 'Highlight' or 'Hot' section of the bookstores.

The doorbell rang. Zexion's moment of concentration was broken. Slightly irritated, he rolled the deskchair back and headed to the hall where the front door was. He knew who this was, but he was still annoyed- it had become a habit, for this was the three-hundredth and twenty-first time this had happened, and he was obviously used to it by then.

"Yo!" Axel greeted cheerfully, white sneakers brushing against the over-grown weeds of Zexion's front steps. Before him was a rather large cardboard box, looking ridiculously heavy. It would be considered intimidating by the average person, but Zexion merely looked bored.

"The latest?" he asked in a monotone, kneeling and opening it gingerly.

"The latest and greatest," the redhead replied, a grin on his face. With a smile, he pointed to the large stacks of books within, the covers of the ones on top just the facade of the many beneath. Names like 'King' and 'Dostoevsky' were here and there. "I tossed in some classics, though, in case you get bored."

"Thank you, Axel. I'll make sure to make use of these. You should get your paycheck from SaÏx by the end of the month," he spoke. His voice was low from disuse, but still powerful in its own way.

"Can't I just get it from you?" Axel said. "You know how creepy SaÏx gets.. Man, what a manager.." he murmured, averting his eyes. "Please?"

Zexion sniffed a sort of sarcastic laugh. "Sorry, Axel. I don't even know how to write a paycheck," he responded. "Have a good day, and thanks for the books." Shutting the door swiftly, he took the heavy box in his hands and walked it down the hall with effort.

- - -

His hands felt like they were sweeping across the keyboard. If I get up to seven hundred words in this chapter done by twelve, I'll do this overtime.. he told himself, as the words flowed from his fingertips and formed themselves on the screen.

He smiled in a rare occasion of sheer happiness, closing his eyes and allowing his hands to simply move without guidance. After this scene, I'll have to have that character disappear for a while; how will I make up for their absence? The audience won't like it, but if I utilise this one, then it'll be more convenient later.. maybe more likable as a whole..

BRRIIINNNNG.

His hands didn't stop, but his smile faded. Who on earth wanted to call him at this moment? He was busy. He was writing. He was making a masterpiece- this was art, and nobody had the right to intrude upon it. If his hands weren't so occupied, he would have thrown the phone across the room. Keeping his eyes closed, but twitching from irritation, he continued typing.

Finally, the ringing stopped. He looked at the phone briefly, so suddenly silent, and rose an interested eyebrow as the answering machine was set into work.

"Hey, my name's Demyx Aquarius. If I got this right, this is Zexion Ishida's phone number? Yeah.. well… yeah. Um, you know SaÏx, right? Ugh. Of course you do, he's your manager.. yeah well.. he's off the job as your manager."

Zexion's hands stopped, and he turned to face the answering machine, rolling his chair over to it.

"I said before, I'm Demyx Aquarius. Zexion Ishida, I'm your new manager!"

"What?" he said, his voice in a low rumble as his hand jerked over and grabbed the receiver of the phone. "What did you say?"

"…Oh, so I did get the right number!"

"What did you say?" he repeated, his voice slightly shaky with a sort of panic.

"Well.. SaÏx got promoted. He did a great job as your manager, so the company thought he deserved a higher position than that. So, here I am. I'm heading over to your place, is that okay?"

"…"

"Great, see you there!"

The room was silent after a quiet beep resounded from the phone. Zexion's hand slipped, and he dropped the receiver. It bounced, stopped and spun a foot from the ground, the wire suspending it spinning in endless spirals.

- - -

Demyx fidgeted, hesitating as his hand played along the surface of the doorbell button. He glanced around uncertainly- had he gotten the right house? He looked at the piece of paper in his hand- SaÏx's meticulous, neat handwriting had specified this place particularly. Though, the older man hadn't mentioned anything by the way of snakes in the front lawn, or grass growing taller than Demyx was.

Well, if this bell isn't answered, that just means it's abandoned and I got the wrong house. No problem, he told himself, and pressed the button.

A crash, and a quiet but audible string of very intelligent sounding words that seemed to stand in the stead of vulgarities emanated from beyond the door, and Demyx concluded that this house was, indeed, inhabited. Shuffling could be heard, barely audible above the sound of the traffic from the road, and someone was coming to the door. Demyx quickly plastered on a smile- first impressions, make a good one, he thought to himself. This was his first job out of college. He had to do it right.

- - -

"Hi, I'm Demyx and I'm your new manager! Nice place you have here!" Demyx said cheerfully, his blond hair bouncing about animatedly as he waved happily, speaking a little too fast.

Zexion glared at him from beneath his dark, blue-grey locks of hair, slowly opening the creaking door full way. He couldn't tell if Demyx was being sarcastic or just horribly optimistic- how could he say he had a 'nice place' when all he had seen was the front lawn- and the front lawn was horribly overgrown? Weeds and untamed grass had choked out everything remotely attractive, sliding up and entwining around the gates and fence. The walkway was cemented, but one couldn't walk through it without getting their pants covered with the seeds of lovegrass.

"Come in," he said quietly, walking away from the door, and through the hallway. He was having his first guest in five years, he realised as he walked down the hall. To his right and left were rooms, most from which emanated the crusty aroma of coffee and old paper. Books and scrolls littered the floors and tables of most rooms of this relatively large house, but he had left the kitchen remarkably pristine. The kitchen, he concluded, was the only area in the house where you could stand farther than five feet from a book. It was clean, nicely kept, well accessorised, and had a table in it- perfect for entertaining a guest.

Demyx followed him obediently, and was all too happy to take a seat when he was asked to. Preparing tea, Zexion cast a glance at the blond from where he stood. He appeared hardly older than a teenager, and seemed to have the mind of a child, Zexion thought with disgust as the blond spun around in his chair, and smiled contentedly at him.

Serving the tea, he sat down on the opposite side of the table, and sipped it with the best of his manners. He had read a book of etiquette or two, and was determined to put his meagre knowledge on interacting with others to use.

"So, Demyx Aquarius was it? How old are you?" he asked, setting the teacup lightly upon the table. Demyx, he observed, had gulped it down with one try and slammed the cup on the table with a bitter look on his face.

"Yes I'm Demyx Aquarius and I'm twenty one years old I just graduated from college and I got a job at the publishing company and now for some reason I'm your manager!"

".." Zexion stared at him with an unimpressed expression, before taking another sip of his tea with a sort of sense of suspense that could drive a normal individual mad. "Relax, Aquarius. I can hardly comprehend a word of what you're saying." He remembered how SaÏx had sat in that exact same seat five years ago, fresh out of college as well- only, SaÏx had a sort of determined professionalism to himself that this person seemed to not possess. Five years of managing someone as frustrating as Zexion had toned the man into an efficient individual. Too efficient, Zexion thought ruefully.

Demyx sputtered lightly, a little surprised, and asked, "Hey so, how old are you? I'm a huge fan of your novels but I never got to know much about you. You don't look half as old as your writing style," he joked. Zexion rose and eyebrow, unamused.

"I'm twenty-three, Aquarius," he replied. "And I appreciate the publishing company not divulging so much information on myself- the readers don't need to know what I'm like, they merely need to enjoy the art of my words."

Demyx pouted lightly, but so naturally that Zexion could see that he had probably done it a thousand times before. "Okaaay. Anyway.. what's your story?"

"Story?" Zexion asked, looking at the blond. That had caught his attention.

"You know. Are you just.. like this?" Demyx asked, gesturing around the sea of parchment and literature that lay beyond the kitchen's sanctuary. "What about your parents? What do they think about all this?"

"They don't care. I paid off the loan they gave me, but I didn't take up the occupation they wanted me to take, so shortly after my career was established as stable, I was disowned. I've been living in this house that I bought with my own money after my first novel was a hit five years ago and the publishing company took me under their wing. Since I entered this house for the first time, I haven't ever found it convenient to leave," he said quietly, before finishing his tea.

"Hmm.." Demyx murmured, resting his chin on his hand as he took in this information. "I see.."So he's an eccentric type, huh.. he thought as he watched Zexion wash the dishes with meticulous precision. "Well, Zex!" he said, vigor regained in his voice. "I look forward to working with you! What's my first job, as your manager?" he asked.

"..." Zexion was quiet for one moment, before replying in deadpan, "Get out and buy me some groceries. Here's the list," throwing a long, thin sheet of paper covered from top to bottom in small, precise handwriting Demyx's way.

The blond barely caught the fluttering piece of parchment, before glancing over it, marvelling it's precision and detail. This person.. certainly was a writer. He looked up at Zexion, and grinned. "Okay! I'll be back soon!", before disappearing into the world beyond Zexion's front door.

The writer sighed, closing the door as he watched the blond leap into a beaten-up secondhand car and drive away. If he was lucky, he wouldn't find many situations a week in which he'd have to face the young man. If he wasn't.. well.

Demyx Aquarius was in for a hell of a job, whichever way.

- - -

Zexion sneezed as he crawled out of bed, and looked outside. It was eight in the morning, but it was dark and gloomy outside- and frigid with pre-snow air. He had slept in jeans and a t-shirt, hardly enough to fend off the cold of the air. Slipping on a jacket, he stretched and stumbled out of bed.

He snapped alert abruptly, picking up the scent of cooking.

Oh, that was right. It was just Demyx.

For the last two months, the blond had been appearing at exactly six in the morning with an oversized bag of something or other, and cooked him breakfast. He still hadn't gotten used to waking up to a young man cooking his meals.

"You're my manager, not my wife," he grumbled as he sat down at the kitchen table, running his pasty pale hands over his face and stifling a low yawn, before resting his head on the table surface. He smelled pancakes- and it smelled good.

"I need to make sure you have the proper atmosphere for writing," Demyx said, smiling calmly as he set down a tray of pancakes and tea in front of Zexion, placing two plates on the table and distributing the food between them.

Within the last two months, the blond had gone around after Zexion, cleaning up the place considerably. The blue-grey haired writer still had to get used to the boy's strict new system- there was actually a library, a bathroom, a sitting room, a bedroom and a kitchen now. The only zone that had been spared of the manager's hand of power was Zexion's 'writing room', which had remained remarkably the same as before- much to Zexion's relief.

What got on Zexion's nerves the most was the times when Demyx actually slept over in his house. He never demanded an explanation and it never happened too often- just enough to annoy Zexion but not enough for him to complain about it.

Quietly, he began eating the pancakes. Yesterday it had been rice porridge, the day before it had been hash browns… "To what is the extent of your breakfast recipe knowledge?" he asked through a mouthful of food. He had learned not to bother with good manners.

"I took extra cooking classes in high school and college, so I know a bit," Demyx grinned happily. "Do you like it, Zex?"

".." Zexion averted his eyes, blushing. That damn nickname had just.. stuck. "I hate it," he said finally, swallowing. The truth was that he thought it tasted excellent, but Demyx didn't need to know that. Thinking it wasn't good enough would just mean Demyx would try to improve, after all. Finishing the meal, he stood, not bothering to put the dishes away. "I'm going to write," he said decisively, walking away without another word, and leaving the blond at the table.

- - -

Demyx glanced at the clock. It was eleven-forty- he'd make Zexion some tea (he refused to serve coffee) and leave at twelve for his date, he resolved as he began preparing the hot water. The writer was currently doing what he did best- writing- in the 'writing room' at the moment.

He smiled as he poured the water into the teacup, watching the green substance swirl around in the water as the green tea pack soaked in. Setting the cup upon a tray, he entered the writing room, careful not to trip over Zexion's neglected personal belongings, and set the cup on the table beside the writer.

"Don't put it too close to the computer," Zexion snapped, not turning to the blond but pushing him away with a sort of slapping motion. Demyx smiled vaguely at this display, and set the tray on a bedstand nearby.

"I'm going out on a date today, so I'll be out from twelve to four, is that okay?" he asked.

".." Zexion said nothing, eyes focused on the screen. Demyx could see the light bouncing off those dark blue orbs, and smiled the the devotion in those eye. "I don't care," the blue-grey haired young man said finally. "Get out of my face, I'm writing."

The blond shrugged, leaving the room. He had left a substantial amount of his personal belongings around Zexion's house in case he'd need them, so he had no need to leave for his own apartment. Zexion may have acted cold on occasion- or all the time, whichever,- but he knew that the young man simply was devoted to his writing- to the extent that he knew little else.

- - -

"Demyx, I want more tea-"

Zexion stopped himself in mid-sentence, realizing that Demyx wasn't here anymore. The blond had left two hours ago for that date of his. Vaguely he wondered what sort of person would go out with someone as bubbly as Demyx, but he pushed aside the thought and resumed writing.

He did want some more green tea, though.

- - -

It was some Malaysian breakfast this morning. Demyx called it bread and sticky rice, Zexion called it 'oily' and 'triangular'. But he enjoyed it nonetheless.

"How was your date?" he asked finally, through mouthfuls of rice. Abruptly, he stopped chewing, and looked up at Demyx, surprised at himself. What had he just said?

Demyx looked equally surprised, but smiled anyway. "She was a bit demanding. I didn't like it much," he said.

Zexion wondered why he felt relief when he heard that.

- - -

"How was the breakfast? It was the first time I really made it. Someone in college taught me how to make it," Demyx asked happily, setting some oolong tea beside Zexion. He always tried placing it as close to the writer without being in range of the computer, often unsuccessfully.

"It was worse than yesterday's, and that's something," the writer said almost absently, not looking away from the computer.

Demyx ignored the comment, and instead asked the writer, "What's your story about?"

"It's a novel," Zexion corrected, faint irritation in his voice. After a silence, he said quietly, "It's about lovers in World War I," finally. "She's his nurse, he's the pride of the army. She falls in love with him and serves him devotedly. However, he believes that he is homosexual, and pushes her away harshly. He learns to love her eventually, and discards his shallow lover for her."

".." Demyx was quiet, gazing as the words formed themselves on the screen. Through all the talking, Zexion hadn't even stopped typing. "For someone who hasn't even had a girlfriend, you certainly do know how to write a romance," he said, smiling. Zexion said nothing in response.

"I don't want oolong tea, Demyx. Can I have normal tea today?" the writer asked, voice surprisingly gentle.

The blond nodded, drinking the tea himself. "Okay. I had a feeling you wouldn't anyway."

- - -

Demyx frowned as he looked upon the bathtub. Zexion hadn't even bothered to clean up after himself- blood soaked the sides and bottom. Sighing, he turned on the water, washing it away. In the bedroom beyond the bathroom door, he could see Zexion lying on the bed, not moving and staring at the ceiling. He couldn't understand Zexion's mind- how could this be 'inspiring' for his novel?

Wiping himself off, he walked out of the bathroom and looked at the writer, and the long bandages that swathed his left arm. "Why'd you do that?" he asked finally.

"My character- gets cut very deeply, emotionally and physically. I can't describe it unless I know what it feels like. It's a very powerful moment," came the monotone reply. Outside, snow was beginning to fall.

Demyx sighed, and gestured for Zexion to sit up. "Look, it's snowing," he said, forcing on a smile on. The young man sat up, and looked out the window. "That's.. a powerful moment, too," he whispered, voice smothered.

Zexion shivered as the blond's hands pressed against his back. Demyx was sitting behind him on the bed, holding him in a sitting position and letting him look at the small snowflakes that fell outside. A human's touch.. something he hadn't had the privilege to in years. He hadn't known he'd missed it.

He refused to turn as warm droplets fell upon his shoulder, and soaked into his shirt. "Demyx.." he murmured, reaching up and feeling the tears falling, rolling further down his back and pasting his clothes to his skin.

"Don't.. do that again.." the quiet voice murmured, as Demyx dug his face into Zexion's shoulders.

He frowned. "It's for my novel. That's the sacrifice I have to take."

The blond's shivering stopped, and he drew away. ".." In his mind's eye, Zexion could see him looking away. Maybe he had given up, finally. Maybe he'd get a new manager. Maybe he wouldn't have to deal with him anymore. He hoped so.

"Fuck your novel. "

Zexion turned around to face the blond, and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

"You heard me," Demyx said, determinedly. "Screw it. You can take a day off, can't you? Come with me," he said, taking the writer by the wrist and leaping off the bed. "We're going out."

"What?" Zexion gasped. "G-go where?" he asked, an expression of vague horror upon his face. Out… out.. where people are? People?.. People..

"To enjoy the snow, of course," Demyx replied simply, strange resolution in his voice. "Here's a scarf," he said, grabbing one of his own off the floor and bundling it around Zexion's neck, and putting a thick jacket on the blue-grey young man's shoulders. "Okay, let's go."

Zexion blinked, surprised into speechlessness. "Demyx.. I haven't gone out in years, and even before that, I still hardly left my dormitory-"

"Well," the blond said, slightly annoyed, "We're going out now. Okay? Okay." Grabbing the blue-grey haired young man by the wrist, he dragged him out.

Zexion fell face-first into the foliage of his own front yard the moment his feet left the area of the inside of his house. Shuddering, he weakly stood, looking around in panic. He was out of his house- his comfort zone. He wanted to be inside- now.

Desperately, he turned on his heel, racing in the direction of the front door.

He gasped as a pair of strong arms wrapped around his belly, stopping him in mid-run as he made for the door, and lifting him into the air. "You're not getting away," Demyx said, a quiet amusement evident in his voice as he mounted Zexion's small frame on his right shoulder.

".." Zexion hung there stupefied for a moment, before looking in the general direction of Demyx's head. "Demyx Aquarius.. I believe that I hate you."

The blond sniffed in restrained laughter. "Keep talking, Ishida. Let's go get some icecream."

- - -

Zexion groaned as he rolled off his bed and hit the floor with a quiet 'thud', and stood shakily. His knees wobbled in pain- he had walked more than he had in his lifetime in the duration of yesterday afternoon. Collapsing on the floor, he crawled towards the kitchen miserably, and mounted himself upon his chair.

To his surprise, Demyx wasn't here today. There was a cold, settled bowl of cereal on the table, though- from closer examination, Zexion could see that the cereal solids had gone mushy. A quick glance at the wallclock gave him the answer- it was twelve in the afternoon. He blinked, shocked. He had slept in.. far, far, too late.

The doorbell rang.

Zexion shuddered, standing up weakly and rushing for the door, ignoring as his joints screamed in pain. That may be Demyx, he told himself. He'd have to shout at the blond for making him ice skate so much yesterday, and run around after him, and throwing snowballs so much.. They had played around far too much yesterday..

Upon opening the door, however, Zexion was greeted with the sight of a worn-looking Axel upon his doorsteps, a cardboard box by his side. That's right.. He usually delivers books once every two months.. he thought, remembering at the last moment. "How long have you been out here?" he asked, seeing the snow piled upon the shivering redhead's hair.

"Two hours," came the tired reply.

"Come in," Zexion said quickly to avoid letting the guilt in his voice show. Taking the box in his hands, he gestured for Axel to enter. "I'm sorry I made you wait. I slept late."

"I don't know if I buy that," the redhead answered coldly as he stood and followed the writer into the house. "That's hardly like you," he added.

"I know, right?" Zexion replied, a quiet chuckle in his voice as he spoke. "I'll fix you something hot, okay? Would you like a change of clothes?"

A silence greeted him. Turning, he saw Axel staring at him with an expression of none other than shock upon his face.

"What is it?" he asked, sceptical.

Quietly, Axel rose a trembling right hand, and extended his index finger in Zexion's direction, speaking only one word: "I…imposter."

It was at that moment when Zexion realized that he had been spouting Demyx's most normal lines this entire scene. He blinked in surprise at himself, standing still.

Finally, he smiled ruefully, and looked at Axel. "Hot chocolate, okay?"

- - -

The familiar sound of typing filled the room as a gust wailed outside. Demyx, wrapped up fairly well in warm attire, draped a quilt over his favourite writer and set a cup of tea at Zexion's side, satisfied despite the fact that the writer hadn't even acknowledged his presence.

"How's the story going?" he asked, politely not looking at the screen and instead eyeing the frosty surface of the window and the furious storm beyond it.

Zexion sat back, and stretched, pulling the quilt over his small frame and giving Demyx a rare, bitter smile. "I deleted it."

Demyx reacted immediately in a sputter, his eyes widening and his hair almost bouncing as his entire body moved in a jerk. "You.. what? W-why would you do that?" he cried almost despairingly, resisting the urge to shake the writer by the shoulder.

The other man just smiled through blue-grey locks of long hair, pale lips quirking upwards in what could have been a humoured smile or a smirk. "It took thousands of words and keystrokes for me to realise it was the most idiotic thing I have ever read. I started a new story already."

Silence filled the room and Demyx wasn't quite sure how to react. Zexion just shrugged and revolved his chair back to the desktop, and the room was filled again with the sound of typing. Outside, the sound of something cracking was heard and a dismembered tree branch smacked against the thick glass pane before being swept away in the rough gales of wind.

"The new story is about a stupid manager who never gives up," Zexion's voice finally filled the room again, in a tone that seemed like he was telling a bedtime story- a strange, tender tone that Demyx seldom heard, "a manager who is always trying his best. He cares so much for the celebrity he's in charge in, though the celebrity's.. nothing but a conceited bastard," a stifled, sad chuckle escaped his lips and Demyx wasn't sure if he was crying or laughing, "a conceited bastard who knows nothing about a man he sees every day and yet starts giving a damn."

"..."

Zexion was avoiding eye contact now, but the keystrokes had slowed down, and the he began to shake in some hushed emotion. "I'm sorry," he finally murmured, barely audible in the muffled awkwardness of the room, drawing the quilt even tighter around himself and breathing in deeply. "You've changed me, Demyx."

Demyx just smiled, hovering over and behind the writer and wrapping him in a warm, much-needed embrace. "You've got a long way to go, dude," he chuckled finally.

He didn't comprehend why, in the next moment, he felt warm tears sliding down the surface of his arms where they were wrapped around Zexion, or why Zexion had suddenly gone quiet and tightened the embrace, but he remained silent.

"I do, don't I?" the young man murmured, voice choked by a sob. He himself didn't truly understand why, that moment, there were tears rolling down the marble-white surface of his face. Perhaps it had something to do with the sweet warmth he had been breathing into his life since this youth had stepped into it, though. It was warmth beyond any of the uncomfortable heat he had known before in the arms of others.

He felt like such a child, more than he had ever felt, right there.

- - -

Zexion lay on the bed, feeling the comfortable sensation of his sleeping clothing, the bedsheets, and Demyx's arms around his waist. The time was ten in the morning and the air smelled like ice- in a sort of pleasant, mild way. Normally he would be cold, but the bundles of quilts that covered his and Demyx's body, combined with their shared body heat, kept him at an extremely comfortable temperature.

Gently, he pried Demyx hands off his torso and rolled out of the bed, deciding that he would be the one to make breakfast this morning. He stretched and did morning exercises like his manager had taught- or forced him- to do, before casting the sleeping blond a smile. Demyx was the same, sleeping or awake- loud, energetic, and overly affectionate.

Zexion headed to the doorway and checked the letterbox, forcing open the frigid metal hatch and pulling out his letters, made stiff by the freezing weather of the peak of winter. Slowly and appreciatively he leafed through them- fan letters, critique, the usual. Everything, as usual, delivered from his agency.

Finally, his fragile fingers traced over the sharp ends of the last letter, and he frowned.

It was another letter from the agency, but this one was notably different from the others. It was from the boss.

"Mm.. m'ning.."

Zexion swerved round and found Demyx in the hallway, sleepily motioning a greeting wave his way and smiling in his usual way, if not drowsier. "I got a letter from the boss," he murmured, waving the letter in the air with his free hand as he held all the others in his left.

"Hn? What's that 'bout?" Demyx asked, looking slightly more awake and pacing Zexion's way, hand jabbing attentively at the stiff white paper surface, where the company logo was printed.

The writer nodded, tearing open the paper- since Demyx entered his life, he had been straying further and further away from formalities- and shaking the folded letter open. A tentative moment of silence passed as Zexion's trained eyes skimmed speedily over the page.

A wistful look was etched upon his face as he handed it to his manager, staring into space the whole way.

"I don't get it," Demyx murmured, reading the letter much slower and with obviously more effort than his superior.

"They don't like it that I changed my story in mid-writing process. They want a story from me soon, or they're laying me off," he murmured summarily, leaning back against the wall and frowning at what appeared to be the ceiling. "That means.. I won't have you anymore, or this house.."

He almost jumped when he found Demyx's hand clap over his shoulder, and the blond grinned at him cheerfully. "Just.. write up a bunch of short stories in the meantime. Even if they do lay you off, you're rich, remember? I mean, where else does the money from all those best sellers go?"

Zexion just eyed Demyx sceptically, as if puzzled by the young man's optimism. "You really are a moron sometimes," he said finally, no ill will in his voice, before sluggishly moving along towards the kitchen. "Come on, I'll make breakfast this morning."

- - -

Demyx strolled in long steps down the wintery streets of the city, stretching and breathing into the pleasant, soft cloth of his scarf. On his right and left, shophouse lights gleamed with post-Christmas lighting that had been yet to be taken down.

He felt a small smile bless his lips as they kissed the warmth of the scarf. These lips still had the feeling of Zexion's fresh on them, hours after they had met. He'd even been counting the hours and minutes since.

It hadn't quite come to him until recently that he liked Zexion, very much. But when he had come to that realisation, he had been ready to accept it- something in him had seen it coming a long time ago. And yesterday, yesterday- heaven happened yesterday.

"How can you figure out what I want for my writing drinks now? It's annoying!"

Around his arms were bags full of groceries, and his ears were full of the television broadcasts of the news of the world. A lot was going on lately- elections, murders, worries and the like. It was the new year, still, and the world had the freshness of a new year feeling in it. A sort of joy was present in even the chilly air.

"I can tell when you want to have oolong tea and when you want normal tea now. I'm yet to figure out green tea yet, though. You want coffee in the mornings, too, and-"

Vaguely, Demyx wondered what Zexion was doing right now. He was probably writing, the way he was- however, if he was lucky, perhaps Zexion was in the sort of mood to read or just nap. Every so often when Demyx had come home- as he had come to call Zexion's house- he would find the writer asking him to take him out, if only to just breathe the chilly air of the outdoors and stretch his arms out in a field of snow.

The light, butterfly kiss on his lips was probably Zexion's way of saying "Be quiet, you fool. That was a rhetoric question."

- - -

"You should rest," Demyx murmured, seeing Zexion's figure bent over the computer. Furious keystrokes filled the room, and the slate-haired writer seemed more determined than ever. He just nodded absently in response to his manager's expression of concern, and Demyx smiled- his concentration had only increased as of late.

Quietly, he wrapped his arms around Zexion's torso and breathed in the scent of the older man. "I like you, man. Take a break," he whispered into Zexion's ear lovingly.

The keystrokes stopped, and Zexion's previously tense body relaxed in Demyx's arms. "Sorry," he said, a tired smile on his face. "The writing company's giving me a lot of stress lately," he commented, reclining and reaching his arms up, wrapping his arms around the neck of the man behind him in a backwards embrace. Kissing his manager's chin, he said, "just give me a push whenever I get too absorbed."

A push, huh.

Demyx's hands slackened in embrace and he let them trail down Zexion's clothed torso, lightly and indirectly brushing against the skin beneath. He felt the other man's body tense at this contact, and decided to push just a bit further. Tipping Zexion's chin back so that his head hung against the chair and upside down, Demyx leaned down and planted an upside-down kiss on the man's lips.

That very kiss seemed to act as a trigger to an onslaught of passion in Zexion that Demyx had barely glimpsed at before. Suddenly he wheeled around his office chair, seizing Demyx's hair and pulling him further into another- and another- another deep, flickering and endlessly lustful kiss.

Demyx pulled back just quickly, nearly panting from breath. He smiled at the feeling of Zexion's hand on his ear, brushing against it playfully. "You," he began, stepping over Zexion's seated form and standing just above him, their bodies pressed against each other, "really should take a break."

Zexion just laughed and pulled them into another breathy kiss.

- - -

He woke pleasantly to the taste of love fresh on his lips, and an air of old energy still lingering in the room. The sun was shining brightly in through the windows, even for a winter morning, and it warmly illuminated their twisted form beneath the tangle of sheets. Face buried in his chest and the sound of deep, sleeping breaths filling his ears, he could feel Zexion against him, sleeping still.

Laying on his back and closing his eyes, just about to fall back into blissful sleep, Demyx murmured a half-minded few words before holding Zexion ever closer to his own form and drifting back into darkness.

- - -

He took a breath of air, feeling white puffs of clouds touch his skin as he breathed out. He had arrived at the gates of Zexion's house, looking as they always did. With an energetic, ecstatic smile, he began to walk to the door as he did every day. He knew he looked like a kid on Christmas all over again- well, he damn near was one.

Demyx's leather-gloved hand twisted open the door, and he took a step in. "Zexion, I'm home!" he called cheerfully, waiting for the writer to show up at the door of his room- any moment now.

Decisive silence met him, and he came to realise that the house was quiet. The air was frigid- Zexion must've forgotten to turn on the heater, that helpless guy. Perhaps he was napping. Demyx shrugged, gently setting down the groceries and discarding his scarf, heading for the heater and turning it on.

Stretching, he opened the door to the room he knew he'd find Zexion- the writing room, cooped up as he always was. Subtly, he drew open the door with absolute silence, so as not to disturb his writer in whatever he was engaged in.

He blinked in surprise- Zexion's current novel lay on his desk, bookmark evidently placed in it. His black laptop computer with which he wrote was closed, surface covered with a quilt as if it would keep the computer safe from the cold air. The bed was bare, with the exception of the twisted sheets that the writer never bothered to fix after a night's sleep.

The room was isolated without him. "Zexion, where are you?" Demyx called, warily stepping into the room, glancing around. It looked as it always did, nothing different- except that the key presence was gone. The heaviest object that clogged every piece of air in the room was the absence of one person. Demyx had never known this house without him, after all. "Zexion?"

No reply, and Demyx progressed to the bathroom door. It was normally ajar, therefore it being closed must have meant that Zexion was in there right now. Politely, he knocked- he could smile just imagining Zexion's reaction if he just barged in. "Hey, I know you're in here."

Silence greeted his typical humorous remark, and he grew concerned. "Zexion? Hey.." he knocked harder, before frowning. Finally, he said, "Zexion, I don't get it, but I'm coming in, okay?"

Gently, he turned the doorknob- he didn't allow Zexion to lock any doors in the house, a silent rule between them- and pushed the door open. Unlike the writing room door, it didn't open without a sound- it creaked noisily and eerily as he pressed against it.

His hand dropped to his side at the sight he met, and his knees buckled to the floor. They hit it with a mind-numbing sharpness in pain, but he ignored it.

The wall had a random splatter of blood here and there, but the worst was inside the bathtub. The plug was in, and none had drained out- sickeningly. A thin layer of blood coated the bottom of the bathtub, blending in with the small figure laying limply in it.

Zexion was fully dressed, but evidence to the horror of the circumstances was obvious. His wrists were forced together by thin, tattered ropes, the backs of his hands against each other and both palms facing outwards. It was a remarkable device he had probably learned to create in one of his thousands of books- in the complex knots of the ropes that cut excruciatingly into his bloody wrists, there led a solitary string that trailed up his body and found itself lodged between his determined teeth.

The harder he pulled, the harder the ropes would close in on his bound wrists, and they would not slacken that easily either.. macabre genius. The writer lay still in the bloodied area, neck craned backwards and resting against the edges and white lips parted just slightly.

Demyx closed his eyes and fought back bile, feeling tears soak his hand.

His body was numb that moment; all he felt were his hands clumsy against the surface of the phone dialling pad, his body slack and not bidding to his control, a blur of emotions and the voice of a woman he didn't know telling him to calm down and that help was on the way. She asked him why. He asked her why, in between terrified sobs and pleas for something even he didn't know.

He was crying pleas all the way until the ambulance had rushed into the room and carried Zexion out. Then he knew he screamed at the second sight of that young man he didn't know what he felt for, bloodied and carried out in a stretcher by men in white who appeared to be professionally panicking.

Demyx didn't know what then, after the door slammed and Zexion was gone, and what was left were some remaining paramedics who felt sorry for him. He knew something happened, then, but it had disappeared into a torrent of violent emotions that threatened to fill his throat and smother him.

- - -

The company had laid Zexion off that very day, impatient with his year's worth of nil progress. Naturally, this meant that Demyx was gone from the job as the manager of Zexion Ishida- he was suspended in a state of limbo at work until the company found another writer for him to be manager to. Or perhaps they would fire him- they had been fairly ambiguous in the letter they sent him, after all.

Demyx descended into a state of not knowing what the hell was going on with his life, paying a daily visit to the hospital every afternoon with a lunchbox at hand only to run into a brick wall composed of some words or other. He had only been able to catch something about 'unconscious', 'mental instability' and 'convulsions', nodding blankly and smiling, handing the nurse- doctor- whoever- the lunchbox before turning away and walking back into the void that his life had become.

Before he knew it, spring had come. Between walks to the hospital, his deadened eyes had hardly noticed the snow melting away with coming warmth, or the heating breezes that occasionally swept into the streets.

He rushed in, in a daily attempt the break down the brick wall the doctors always built up especially for him, until one day he ran head-on into the brick wall only to find nothing there. The doctors let him into the room, telling him that Zexion's condition was finally stable enough to allow visitors. The nurse had even joked something about devotion- Demyx hadn't been listening.

He simply walked straight for Zexion's room and swung open the door, stepping into the whitewash room that had, over a month of agony, become the young writer's own. "Zexion Ishida, I just want you to know that- that-!" –

that I love you more than life itself and that I hate you for being so selfish as to leave me alone but I damn well love you still, you know that? but his voice was gone with emotion that had long strangled it and his mouth only moved, silently screaming out the words as tears of concentrated emotion streaked his cheeks.

There, in the blinding whiteness and sterility of the rooms walls and the warmness of a spring sun on a day, Zexion sat up against a pillow. The health had returned to his body even more than before, a strange fullness in his figure and glow in his eyes. Upon opening the door and rushing in, Demyx could have mistaken the room for heaven and Zexion for an angel, as cliché as it sounded.

The young man eyed Demyx with a warm demeanour and he cocked his head to his side, perplexed at the onslaught of emotion suddenly fired at him. He barely had time to say a word before Demyx had run to the bedside and taken him in an embrace. Demyx didn't want to kiss him or cry persistent I love yous into his ear anymore like he had over the past month of suspenseful pain- he suddenly didn't find the power to, frozen in the moment with Zexion in his arms.

The world could have collapsed and disappeared into the white of this world and Demyx would not have noticed. Time could have started going backwards and he would have still been holding Zexion in his arms, because that's what he wished time felt like in that moment: forever. Demyx's mind and everything around him successfully went blank, cancelled out with a thousand different emotions.

And suddenly, with just three words, the world returned to Demyx and so did time. The darkest colours of life suddenly tainted the walls, streaked across them like blood. Horrible truths about life suddenly returned to the surface of the ocean of his heart, with just three words.

"Who are you?"

- - -

In the lobby, the nurses patted his shoulder and tried in vain to console him as he slowly and excruciatingly dealt with the facts. Zexion had been too traumatised from his own self-mutilation, he had discovered. He had been too depressed and crushed by the weight of debts and bills and letters from the publishing company- the suicide attempt count rose and rose in numbers every day, Demyx had learned.

The medication over the last month had gotten stronger with every new ten attempts at suicide, until Zexion was finally near-comatose on drugs, and then.. nothing. The suicide attempts stopped and he had descended into a state of unnatural blankness. The doctors said 'amnesia' and that was all Demyx could hear.

- - -
months later

Demyx smiled vaguely, shouldering a bag and rolling his sore shoulders back in discomfort. The summer sun shone glaringly upon him, shimmering against everything it collided with. He paced along the sidewalk cheerfully, arriving at his destination before he knew it. All around him, people passed on bicycles and foot, illuminated with a hue of orange in the last rays of a setting sun.

The cafe before him was a rustic little place that he had come to work at in the last three months. Life had come to a sort of stop these last months- the city grew quiet as people came and went and it seemed like everything had slowed down. A rush of violent and cold feelings left with the winter, succumbing to a humble sort of peace with spring and summer.

He tossed aside his bag as he entered the cafe, donning an apron and taking a comfortable seat behind the counter. Without a catch, he smoothly began to take orders, beginning his work like any other day. His co-workers greeted him with a smile and he smiled back in between servings of coffee and handfuls of dollar bills.

Demyx tightened the apron around himself before he looked up at the entrance, and saw him, before smiling again- a vague, distant smile that could have had a thousand meanings to it. His co-workers understood, growing silent and drawing back into the kitchen behind the wall behind the counter.

A familiar pale hand brushing against a familiar bluish-grey lock of hair and those navy blue eyes watching him like they did every day- he had grown accustomed to watching these subtle movements as the summer days passed.

He put on a smile of utmost affectation, setting both palms flat against the counter as his customer arrived. "Hey, afternoon. Demyx Aquarius at your service," without so much as a moment, he added, "oolong tea again, right?"

Zexion nodded, tapping a hand against the glass and giving Demyx an annoyed look. "You can figure out what I want for my drinks when I write now? That's going to get annoying."

- - -

"How's the story going?" he asked, deliberately slowing the process of warming up the water to the temperature that Zexion just liked it. His tanned, long fingers worked skilfully but slowly over the structure, listening for his customer's reply.

"It's all right," Zexion said remotely, palm tapping against the glass surface as he awaited his drink.

Behind the counter and behind his customer's back, Demyx smiled bitterly at the thought that Zexion was back to writing. Heaven knew where his latest masterpiece would take him- he could only pray that Zexion wouldn't return to the misery he had met before.

Softly, he whispered his wish for Zexion's happiness before he turned round and set the large mug of tea on the table, "Here's your drink, Mr. Ishida. Hope you enjoy it," with a grin.

Zexion returned the sentiment with a small quirk of the lips, taking the mug in one hand and securing his computer bag in the other as he moved to settle at a table. "Thank you."

"Don't get too absorbed in your writing, now. Take a break every so often, yeah?" Demyx laughed, words flavoured with déjà vu on his lips.

Zexion paused for a moment; the empty ghosts of what had been his lost remembrance clicked briefly in his mind for the smallest fraction of a second. He had heard that before, in the crevasses of his lost reminiscences, hadn't he? The déjà vu in that voice and those words was too strong to ignore.

Damn amnesia.

Demyx was eyeing him and he realised that he had made the pause awkward. Finally he spoke with the first response that came to mind.

"Just give me a push whenever I get too 'absorbed', will you?" the writer returned with bright, cheerful eyes as he turned and walked away, leaving Demyx at the counter, watching his form with a startled expression.

"Zexion, wait!"

Zexion paused at the plea, and turned with a bemused expression on his face. He had taken enough time for light chat with the boy, but now was time to write- he didn't appreciate the sudden disturbance. "Yes?" he responded in a clipped voice.

He stepped backwards as a thumbdrive was suddenly thrust into his face. Demyx's intense stare was enough to alarm anybody. "Could you read this over for me?.. Please."

- - -

Navy eyes scanned over the screen and Demyx watched from across the table, feeling his gut twist with suspense. This had gone on for the last hour or so of Zexion reading over a story he didn't know he'd written, before the writer's eyes shut thoughtfully as he lowered the screen.

"What do you think?" Demyx finally dared to ask.

"It's a familiar style. It was written by that novel writer, the enigmatic Z.I., isn't it? It's very much like him," he said, reclining into the comfort of the café sofa and lazily eyeing the computer surface. "There are some differences in it, however."

"Like what?" the blond asked eagerly.

"Z.I. always killed his own writing by desperately attempting to satisfy all members of his audience, but this is different. This is a very raw piece that doesn't flatter, that's for certain," Zexion remarked, "Z.I.'s primary mistake was a misunderstanding of his own capabilities as a writer- the stress of trying to make an ultimate masterpiece was probably what brought about the 'suicide' his publishers insist that he committed. But it's definitely him; this story. It's in his flow and wording- I recognise it better than any other writers', for some reason."

You should, Demyx thought sadly. "You won't make Z.I.'s mistake as a writer, will you?"

"He didn't make a mistake in this story," Zexion returned, a certain fondness, "it's rather the sort of story I would like to achieve someday. Though, that celebrity character certainly is quite the idiot," he commented, idly flicking a lithe finger against the computer screen. Briefly, from beneath the long sleeves of his jacket, Demyx caught a glimpse of a scar on his wrists.

"He was, wasn't he," he laughed, not bothering- or perhaps forgetting- to use the proper tense.

The writer across the table eyed him sceptically. "A pity this isn't complete. Thank you for showing it to me, though. Demyx, was it?"

"Demyx Aquarius, sir."

"It's nice to finally have a conversation with you. Are you free this evening?"

- - -
the amount of time it takes for love to bloom all over again

A subtle, tanned fingers' brush across pale, delicate flesh and Zexion let out a quiet murmur of pleasure, eyes opening to the sight of the man above him, trailing kisses down his forehead and the bridge of his nose. "Good morning," the low words barely reached his ears between the sensation of those soft lips on his frame.

"Good morning," he returned, holding Demyx's body close to his own, breathing in his scent.

The morning sun was far up in the sky already, and they were still undressed and in bed, and didn't appear to be moving leaving anytime soon.

Demyx barely had time to smile as his lips traced the outlines of Zexion's body.

Heaven had happened yesterday, all over again.

- - -
but I don't mind the present so much either.

Fini

Author's note: Unbeta'd, but reread. Hope you enjoyed it. Drop a review for poor writers like us, will you?

Life as an author/doujinka/poets/etc is really that stressful. My own personal point in this story was to have Zexion cut himself and attempt suicide.. but point out that the whole idea is not 'emo' or whatever- it's sad desperation. Some peoples' understanding of the world is the very thing that drives them mad.. Well, whatever. This author's note isn't meant for wemo.

This is a personal milestone for me, something like a statement that I've 'graduated' from the stage of writing I was before. I always wanted to have a story with a development theme- you tell me if I pulled it off decently. Now I can look back at my days of KH shonenai writing with happiness. xD;;

Yes, this was seriously written over four months. It was written in very strong and occasional bursts of writing. At one point I had forgotten about it, but here I am completing it- it's that fun. Usually I finish my stuff in a week and spend the next week revising it- apparently this story's special, because for some reason I really don't want to revise it and it took me this long to get off my lazy butt and finish it. Sorry for the long delay, Catherine..

Over and out, K.A.S/Forneas